


A Moment to Grieve

by vecchiofastidioso



Series: Excerpts From a Bard's Life [2]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 17:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2740502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vecchiofastidioso/pseuds/vecchiofastidioso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke is shattered in the wake of Leandra's death, and most people have a policy of 'let Hawke come to us when she's ready for support'.</p><p>Not Varric though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Moment to Grieve

         Baths.  
         Hawke loved them.  
         Especially after a day like today, where there was still blood in her hair from getting too close to Quentin as she slashed his throat with her belt knife, her muscles ached from being smashed back by a Shade, and she was exhausted. Mentally and physically.  
         "No visitors are to be admitted, Bodahn," she ordered, not even bothering to acknowledge his confirmation of her command as she trudged upstairs. She wasn't ready to deal with her friends offering their sympathy, her uncle's questions as to whether she found her mother or not.  
         Orana met the ginger at the door to the master suite to help the rogue out of dusty, blood-caked armour. "Your bath is ready, Mistress," she offered softly, gathering up the discarded leather.  
         "Thank you, Orana. I can take care of things from here," Hawke murmured with a little smile.  
         As the Elf girl left, the petite rogue sighed and removed her breast band and smalls. Normally, this was the point where Leandra would come in and scold her for being reckless, sighing over her oldest child's tendency towards fights instead of parties as she washed the young woman's hair. Leandra's fingers were always gentle, and Hawke could feel the love in them as her scalp was massaged, and conversation would turn to other things. Things like when she was getting married, little snippets about Leandra's suitor and her days out. If only she'd paid more attention to Leandra's chatter! Then...maybe then...Leandra would still be alive...  
         Hawke leaned back in the bath, eyes closing as hot tears slipped down her cheeks and dripped into the warm water. Her mother was one of those people who just...didn't seem like they would ever leave, ever be taken away. And yet it happened. Much sooner and crueller than could be imagined. When the door opened beyond the screen, the rogue cleared her throat and called, "I'm fine, Orana. Go ahead and go to bed."  
         "I think I'll wait for you, Freckles."  
         Oh. Maker. _Varric._ The tears slipped down faster, and a sob escaped just as strong arms slid around her, lips pressing against the top of her head in a comforting gesture. If Varric hadn't been there, Aubrey might not have made it home. He really was her rock. She didn't deserve him, didn't deserve his patient warmth at her back. How often had she taken him for granted by this point?  
         "Before you say anything: there was nothing you could have done," Varric rumbled as he gently rubbed his Freckles' arms. His hands drifted away, but only to cup and pour water over his lover's hair. She still had that bastard's blood and dirt from the foundry caking her bright locks. "You aren't omniscient, no matter how many connexions we have. And Leandra was a lady, the type to keep things to herself until she was sure about them."  
         "But I should have--"  
         "No buts. You did everything you could, and you saved her from being his puppet."  
         There was no arguing with Varric. Especially not when tired, emotionally drained and with thoughts just swirling so quickly. The motions of thick, confident fingers didn't hurt matters either.  
         His hands were different from Mother's. While both used the same lightly floral soap on that flaming hair, Varric's fingers massaged Hawke's scalp more firmly. His deep voice hummed a familiar and soothing tune: the one he hummed or sang Dwarvish words to softly when writing. And once those soft curls were finally clean, those nimble and callused fingers kneaded at tense muscles even as the Dwarf kissed away the tears that still trickled down Aubrey's cheeks.  
         No more Mother. No more soft smiles from the elegant woman. No more hints about how Aubrey should marry. No more gossip while those slim-fingered hands lovingly washed bright curls that the eldest Hawke child got from Malcolm. But Varric was still there, lifting the rogue out of the tub, and lowering her onto a towel so he could start drying her off. Ever the mastermind and one with a plan was her Varric. And so sturdy and supportive. His strong arms easily lifted her, now garbed in soft clothing, and gently set the sniffling ginger on the altogether too large bed before removing his jewellery and climbing in to gather her close.  
         It was warm. She was safe. Loved. Calloused hands were gentle on soft skin, and Varric's lips lightly brushed over the map of freckles covering Aubrey's shoulders.  
         "I'm staying right here," he promised huskily. "Not going anywhere, even if you tell me to, Freckles."

         It hurt to feel his freckled sweetheart weeping silently against his chest. Varric wasn't kidding when he said he hated seeing a human cry. More specifically: he hated seeing Hawke cry.  
         His lady's heart was breaking, and all the storyteller could do was hold her as she cried.  
         The tears would be healing in the end, letting Aubrey vent her distress over the loss of her mother. Leandra really had been...quite the lady. And Carver sounded like a bit of a tit whenever Hawke or Sunshine talked about him. But Varric had never known her to cry over the baby brother killed by an ogre, or the father who died before the Blight. Maybe part of her tears were for the family she lost, not just for her mother.  
         What mattered to the bard was how Freckles' breathing turned to hiccups, how her quiet tears turned into soft wailing. The only thing he could do for her was knead gently at her back and let her snuggle close. All he could do was stroke her soft curls and hum a wordless tune as gradually, gradually, her sobbing eased and her breathing slowed. Slowly, shuddering muscles relaxed, and Varric felt his lady sigh against his skin.  
         Wordlessly, Varric Tethras made a vow, sealed with a kiss to Hawke's forehead: Hawke would never have to sob her heart out over him.


End file.
